She waved a hand as if dismissing the rooms, Majesty Hall, the entire city, and walked out.
Across the city a burly foreigner drove a wagon into the yard of the Eldra Iron Mongers and shut the gates behind him. The master of the works himself, Humble Measure, met him as he brought the wagon to a halt before one of the cavernous shops.
Barathol dropped the reins, peered down at Humble. ‘Ready?’
Humble Measure raised a long-handled pair of iron tongs. ‘Ready.’
They went to the rear of the wagon and lowered the gate. A metal casket filled the bed. Barathol grabbed hold of a rope handle and yanked it out. It fell with a crash amid the black clinker and slag. He looked to Humble again. ‘Furnace ready?’
‘Iron’s roiling white hot.’
‘All right. Let’s get it done.’
Humble set the tongs on the lid and took the other handle. Together they carried the casket into the shop, where an orange and yellow glow flickered and smoke once more billowed out to hang over the city.
Afterwards, as they walked back to the wagon, Humble Measure wiped his blackened hands on a filthy rag. ‘Until next time, then.’
Barathol gave a harsh laugh. ‘I know what you mean — but let’s hope not, yes?’
‘Yes. Quite. Twins favour you, then.’
Barathol nodded and shook the reins.
Humble Measure watched the man go. Yes, he agreed: let us hope there will be no further call. Yet in the meantime one must remain vigilant. He had his cause now. He’d been misguided before. Sought answers in the wrong directions. But now he understood. And he would apply all his resources just as ruthlessly as before. He knew where the true threats lay now and he would keep watch.
He would await the slips of paper inscribed with the broken circle.
For Torvald the farewells had been swift and without ceremony. The quorls arrived to pick up the survivors of the Moranth assault group and they had flown off, swooping to the east around the city. Galene left last. As if in salute she offered the slightest tilt of her engraved helm. He answered with his best awkward effort at a formal bow.
He stood for a time watching them disappear into the sun’s glare. A mannered cough brought him round to see a young Darujhistani aristocrat in much-damaged finery. ‘Yes?’
The lad bowed. ‘I understand you are the new Councillor Nom.’
‘I am.’
‘Permit me to introduce myself — my name is Corien. Corien Lim.’
Torvald could not keep his brows from rising. ‘Ah … I see. Well … I am sorry for your loss.’
The lad bowed again. He rubbed at his grimed nose, grimacing. ‘You are most courteous, sir. I take this liberty because given the circumstances I believe we may be seeing much more of each other.’
Torvald had no idea what to say to that so he nodded sagely. ‘Really. That is … most interesting.’
The Lim scion bowed again, taking his leave. ‘Until then, sir.’
Torvald turned on to a path down the hill. He walked in silence, deep in puzzled thought. Had he just received his first overture of recognition from an aristocrat — a possible future councillor? If so, things were looking up for Torvald Nom. Then he recalled what lay ahead and he lost even that thin shred of optimism: homecoming awaited.
What should it be this time? Pirates? Invasions? Slavers? Stomach troubles?
As he walked the district he passed patches of fire damage. A few city blocks had burned but overall the harm was not nearly so terrible as he had feared. And everywhere, on every corner, lay pots in heaps, abandoned or broken. Some still held water — no doubt drawn from wells, troughs, and even the lake itself.
He frowned, eyeing them: something familiar about those pots.
He paused before the door to his own house. Once more wiped his hands on the thighs of his trousers. As he reached for the handle the door was yanked inward. Tiserra stood in the threshold. She cocked an eye.
‘Greetings, fair wife!’ He moved to step in but she blocked the way.
‘And what was it this time?’ she demanded.
‘Ah! Well …’ Torvald pulled a hand down his unshaven cheek. ‘You may not believe this, good wife … but I was sent on a secret diplomatic mission to the north, only to be kidnapped by Moranth. And in negotiation with them, I managed to save the city!’
‘Oh, really? You saved the city, did you?’
He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Gods’ own truth! That’s exactly what happened. If I may come in I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Indeed?’ She edged slightly to one side. ‘I can’t wait to hear. Does it bear upon this non-paying job of yours?’
He slid in around her. ‘Ah … odd you should mention that. In fact it does.’
She shut the door and brushed drying clay from her hands. ‘Well then. It’s a good thing that I’m owed for a great many pots.’
Councillor Coll walked the empty rooms of his manor house. Reaching the wide base of the ornate curved staircase he paused to rest a hand on the balustrade. After a time he set a booted foot on the first stair. Jaws tight, he leaned forward until he had to raise his rear foot to place it upon the second. He eased a breath out between clenched teeth, then continued on.
The bedroom door was open. He entered to stand by the low dresser. Thick curtains hung closed before the terrace doors, holding the room in a dim murky light. The air smelled of dust and stale perfume. He crossed to the curtains and parted them. A shaft of light played across the room: dust motes spun and danced.
He yanked the thick cloths to the sides and then pulled the double doors open. A gust of wind sent the dust swirling from the bedcovers. Taking a deep breath of the air, he turned to the door. Passing the dresser cluttered with its tiny glass bottles he ran a finger through the thick grey layer upon it. He examined his finger, then dusted his hands together and left.
Outside, his carriage-driver asked, ‘Destination, Councillor?’
‘Destination?’ Coll answered, outraged. ‘Why, Majesty Hall of course!’
The carriage-driver rolled his eyes to the sky as he gave the reins a tug.
Far outside Darujhistan, on the western edge of Maiten town, an old woman staggered from her straw-roofed shack. She held her head, groaning and blinking in the light. She wrenched at her great mane of matted frizzy hair to examine a handful. She let out a great yelp of horror and batted at the curled mass, raising a cloud of dust and dirt.
Then she worked her mouth as if having tasted something vile. She spat in the street, wiped her mouth and grimaced her disgust. She caught sight now of her mud-caked tatters of skirts and grabbed fists of them, twisting them back and forth. ‘May the gods die of crotch-rot! What’s happened to my dress?’
‘Watch yer mouth, y’ damned drunken witch,’ a passer-by growled.
‘How would you like-’ She held her head and groaned anew. ‘Oh gods! Wait till I get my hands on that slimy toad!’ She reached for the wall of her shack. ‘Oh, my head. My poor head. Where’s Derudan’s hookah off to?’ She stumbled inside and began searching amid the rubbish.
West of the Maiten River the Malazan army broke camp to march. Fist K’ess was packing his travel panniers with orders and records when Ambassador Aragan entered. The Fist saluted, then motioned an invitation to a stool where a tray of tea waited.
Aragan waved a negative. ‘I’m off for the city.’
K’ess paused in his packing. ‘With respect, Ambassador. Perhaps you should wait …’
The big man tucked his hands into his tight weapon belt. ‘No, no. I’ll have my honour guard, of course.’
‘Come to Pale with the Fifth.’
The Ambassador tilted his balding head. ‘Generous offer, Fist, but the embassy hasn’t been formally closed. We’ll see what the final decision is from whoever ends up in control there.’